


Play-Fighting in the Cold

by collie



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: (LARGE age difference), Age Difference, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/pseuds/collie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grey's story. From the tail, all the way to the front.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play-Fighting in the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for [Laura](http://aeneapsych.tumblr.com) (who also beta'd it because she is a perfect gem ♥), [Jinxy](http://jinxyreads.tumblr.com), [Laurel](http://meechwoods.tumblr.com), and [Renqa](http://renqa.tumblr.com). I blame you guys for my Snowpiercer obsession.
> 
> [I Won't Be There Tomorrow](http://galaxied.tumblr.com/post/82851468818) (Fanmix).

“Boy."

The child cringes back when he hears words spoken at him. He doesn't trust them, the sounds that mouths make. The loud, cruel sounds barked at him. He barely understands words, but he understands the anger, the pity, and the sneers. He can _feel_ that he's unwanted.

“Boy, come out of there.”

He knows how to fit into small places. He knows how to contort his near-skeletal frame into spaces no one else can. He can even sleep upside down if he has to; he's done it countless times. Anything to keep safe. Anything to stay hidden. But now the old man with the hair that looks like the drawings of snow he's seen is reaching for him.

He whimpers and strains back against the frigid metal walls and beams of the scaffolding he's hiding in, or _was_ hiding in, until he was found. The people call the old man Gilliam, and the boy doesn't know why, but he's treated with respect. The boy himself doesn't have a name, or if he ever did, he never knew it.

No use for names when you're alone. No use for anything other than food and sleep and safe. That's all he thinks about. He doesn't know where he is or how he got here, but he knows he needs to survive.

He doesn't really know what food smells like, but the glint of faint, ruddy light off of one of the protein bars catches his keen eye. He perks and saliva fills his mouth as the old man waves it in front of his safe, hiding place.

“You can have the entire bar if you come out.”

The boy thinks that maybe, just maybe, there could be worse fates. The old man is warm and has blankets to wrap him in, and even if it's just for one night, his belly will be full and he won't have to shiver himself to sleep.

 

“How old is he? Three?” The man-boy with dark hair and untrusting eyes grumbles as he glares at the boy.

“Looks about, yes,” the old man says. “Maybe just a hair younger than Edgar.”

“He's just another mouth to feed.”

“He's one of us.” Gilliam's smile hides things. “Every person is important. Every life is precious. These are things you must remember if you're to be a good leader.”

The dark man grunts and sighs, and the boy pulls the blanket over his head and peeks out from between the folds. He sees weight in the way the dark man carries his shoulders. He sees shame and bitterness in the way the dark one won't look Gilliam in the eyes.

“What you just felt there?” Gilliam says, giving the dark man a meaningful look. “It's important. Keep it with you and don't let yourself forget. Now go and check on Edgar while I see to my new guest.”

The boy's heart leaps into his chest, and with a trembling whimper he curls up deeper into the blankets.

 

The boy is four years old when Gilliam deems him healthy and useful enough to be considered a real person.

The dark-haired man, who the boy comes to know as Curtis, scratches at the back of his freshly-shorn head. Curtis hangs around often, and the boy knows his smell now. He doesn't scurry to hide anymore when the curtain flips back and Curtis walks in, his eyes dull and his clothes ill-fitting because of the quickly burgeoning muscle he doesn't quite know how to wear yet.

"Why do you call him Grey?" Curtis asks, his eyes darting between Gilliam and the boy as he crouches down a respectful distance away from them both. His instincts understand alpha males and he knows well enough that he isn't one.

"Because that's what color he was when I found him." Gilliam smiles, and his eyes twinkle. Grey smiles and puffs up a bit, happy to be worthy of a name.

 

It's been four years since Gilliam found him and he's seven years old, now. Or at least that's what Gilliam tells him. Grey has no real concept of time; not in years or months or days. He keeps time by Gilliam's routine, by the loud sound that brings the protein bars, and when everyone else goes to sleep and wakes up.

He understands the mouth sounds now. He knows what they mean when people say words at him; knows now that they're called words. Gilliam tells him he'll never be able to say them back because he never learned how to speak when he was young. His voice never developed, and now it never can. But there are other ways to communicate, and Grey learns hand signals for basic things: hungry, tired, hurt, bathroom. Happy, sad, love, hate.

He plays with the boy called Edgar sometimes. Edgar has bright eyes and pink cheeks and pale hair. He's loud and laughs a lot, and is always ghosting around behind Curtis. Gilliam and Curtis teach him and Edgar how to read, but it's hard for Grey because he can't sound the words out loud.

He gets frustrated. Resentful. He accidentally breaks one of Edgar's fingers in his haste to run away, and they don't find him for three days. Grey sees them but they don't see him, because even after all this time he still knows all the best hiding places. He lives in the scaffolding and moves silently along the ceiling like a cockroach, feeling just as unwanted and just as immortal.

It's not until Edgar leaves water out for him that he finally comes crawling back, wearing shame on his face like a badge. The two dirty children huddle together in the dark, heads close as Edgar speaks. Anyone looking in on them would smile, knowing they're imitating the adults around them; speaking in hushed tones and conspiratorially close, so no one can hear them but those they want to hear.

“My finger doesn't hurt,” Edgar says. He holds it up and shows Grey how it's been taped up and bandaged. There's a stick poking out of the bandages and Grey cocks his head and frowns, not understanding why. “You don't have to hide anymore,” Edgar continues. “You should come back, um... because _Gilliam_ misses you.”

Edgar nods and puts on a brave face through his lie, but Grey sees right through it. He launches himself out of his rat hole and tackles Edgar, and the ginger-haired boy whoops in both surprise and delight. There are hissed shushes and groans as people wake up, because trying to get two seven year old boys to contain themselves when they're happy is like trying to catch a tornado in a bucket.

 

Grey wishes he was stronger. Taller. He wishes he could be the one Gilliam leans on instead of Curtis. He watches Curtis grow broader and stronger as the months pass, and resents his small body for taking so long to catch up.

He asks about Gilliam's missing arm. His missing leg. He asks and asks and asks, but Gilliam only shushes him and says that he'll tell Grey when he's older. Grey isn't so very smart, but he's clever and quick. He sees the other older men, all missing arms and legs, and he knows it means _something_.

Grey cries sometimes when he's nested in Gilliam's blankets. Into the old man's clothes. He presses his face against Gilliam's neck, sinewy and and covered with paper-thin skin. When he brushes his small hand over the stump of Gilliam's arm, his little body is looped in Gilliam's other and finally tucked away into bed.

“That's nothing you need to worry about, Grey,” Gilliam says softly, with little trace of emotion for his lost limb. “This will never be your fate.”

 

Grey is nine years old when he learns how to fight. When he's taught discipline and the art. He's always been scrappy, Gilliam teases, but to harness that natural dexterity and flexibility, and to put real strength and skill behind it; Grey will become an invaluable asset.

He never knows his teacher's name.

“You can't say it, so why know it?” the man says, gruffly. “If you need my attention, just snap your fingers.”

Grey learns how to snap on that first day, as well.

“Who is this guy?” Grey hears Curtis ask. He tries not to listen, but his ears are sharp from his time living as a scavenger.

“He was a martial artist during his years on Earth,” Gilliam replies. Grey smiles, because he can hear the smile in Gilliam's voice. “An instructor. Grey has natural talent. It should be honed.”

“He's just a kid,” Curtis says. “What's the point?”

“I've seen boys younger than Grey take down men twice your size, Curtis.”

Grey's eyes narrow and he feels himself swell in his mind's eye, imagining himself bigger than he is. Lean and strong and capable. He redoubles his concentration and ignores the sweat stinging his eyes. He pushes through the pain and strain to make Gilliam proud. To show Curtis that he's more than just a rat.

“I'll teach you knives, too,” his teacher says. “We make them out of the scrap. I'll teach you how to make your own.”

“We need every weapon we can horde,” Grey hears Gilliam say.

With a sharp glance that betrays his nine years, he catches Gilliam's approving eyes and knows that Gilliam isn't just talking about knives. He's talking about Grey.

 

Grey is thirteen years old when he finally grows tall, and for a few months his nights are bone-deep aching agony. His legs and back hurt all the time, and despite Gilliam's hands running over his sore muscles and his reassuring words that it won't last more than a few more weeks, nothing can soothe him.

He feels clumsy and confused, and the pain makes him as mean as the biting cold that rushes endlessly past the train. His normally short patience becomes nonexistent, and more often than not he finds himself starting fights with people he has no business being aggressive with. People who are friends, mentors, _family_. He keeps most of his time with Edgar, and a few of the other boys who were born around the same time as them. He doesn't feel as guilty rough-housing with them, because they happily give as good as they get, baring spittle-coated teeth and eyes bright with animal instincts.

It's not until the day the half-dozen of them are descending on two of the younger girls, that Grey finds himself on the receiving end of a hard smack to the cheek and a sternly-pointed finger from Tanya.

“Ya'll behave,” she warns them, stern like a mother. “You're young men, now. You need to start actin' like men. There're enough animals on this train, already.” She glances in the direction of the front, and the boys all break apart, strangely humbled.

Grey skulks around and glares sullenly because he doesn't know what acting like a man means.

It's not too long after that Curtis drags him, Edgar, and the other boys into Gilliam's tent for the most awkward and embarrassing conversation Grey's ever experienced. Gilliam does most of the talking, while Painter shows them drawings. Curtis is there mainly to smack anyone who laughs on the back of the head. It's technical, there's an anatomy lesson, sure, but it's also straight-forward and practical. _Oh,_ Grey thinks, _so that's what it means to be a man_. So _that's_ why he feels the way he feels.

 

They're just barely into his thirteenth summer the first time Gilliam touches him, and Grey thinks this must be what dying feels like.

The way his heart pounds so hard it clogs up his ears, and he can't hear anything other than his own rushing blood and harsh, labored, gasping breaths. The way he squirms _so hard_ , but has no idea if he's trying to get away or trying to dig a home inside of Gilliam's ribcage with a sharp, pointy elbow.

Gilliam grunts and shifts in pain, and Grey freezes when his hand stops moving. He's suddenly terrified of doing anything that might make Gilliam stop, because Grey is awash with this all-consuming _need_ ; this aching, desperate feeling he's never felt before. Never indulged in. It's almost scary for the boy who's never learned what it means to fear.

“Mind your elbows, Grey,” Gilliam rumbles in his ear. Grey tucks his elbows in against his sides before Gilliam moves his hand again, like a reward.

Grey's jaw nearly unhinges in his desperation to let something out, anything, but there's no sound. Not really. Just a low, tight body sound as his windpipe strains and constricts with each slow, tight jerking-stroke of Gilliam's rough, warm hand.

He presses his back against Gilliam's front, his skin drinking up the feel of Gilliam's hard, bony chest, soft belly, and the hard metal cap that covers the stump of his leg resting firmly against Grey's side. His coltish legs splay on either side of Gilliam's, and if his desperate, rutting hips bring Gilliam any discomfort, he keeps it all to himself.

“That's a good boy.” Gilliam gives this moment to Grey, murmuring encouragement and praise. “My strong, beautiful boy.”

Grey's head falls back to rest against Gilliam's collarbone, teeth digging into his lower lip. He keeps at bay the low, guttural sound in his throat; the sound cracking under the wash of his burgeoning manhood, changing the voice no one will ever get to hear.

His hands grab at Gilliam, one clutching to the thigh of his good leg and one curling around Gilliam's forearm. The brush of a bristly beard against his cheek and chapped lips branding his jaw with heat pull a needy whine from Grey. He turns his head to offer his throat to Gilliam, who tastes his skin with careful little darts of his tongue.

He comes hard and fast, slender hips bucking gently as Gilliam mutters praises against his neck and keeps jerking him even as he whines. Slicks him with his own spunk and slowly rubs it back into his skin until his cock is sticky and tacky and soft in Gilliam's hand.

It's so much better than anything he's ever done to himself. All the nights hunching in on himself, covered in sweat as he pushes himself frantically through his own fist. Spilling thin, hot release into his gripping fingers as he gasps and shakes, hoping he doesn't wake Gilliam. But it's the nights he sees Gilliam's eyes open to shining slivers, watching him pleasure himself, that he comes the hardest.

 

Grey kills his first man during the McGregor Riots; a guard who's suicidal enough to shoot one of Grey's friends in the back. Grey darts between legs and crawls up the wall, just as fast as the lizards Gilliam's told him about during his lessons. He drops down on the guard's head like a spider and stabs him in the side of the neck, feeling a hot lurching clench in his stomach as red gushes out over his hand and his thigh, where his legs clutch like a vice around the guard's shoulders.

His blood is so hot, and for a moment Grey shudders and shivers. His skin crawls, nostrils flare, and he wants _more_. He kills three more men before the riots come to an inglorious end, and it takes both Curtis and Andrew to drag him out of the fray, because he's never felt anything so warm before.

It's their fourteenth year on the train, and Grey is nearly fifteen years old. He knows this because each time they pass through the new year marker, Gilliam scratches a line in the wall. One new line for the year and one new line for Grey.

Underneath this rudimentary calendar, Grey scratches four lines of his own with one of the many knives he's made. His lines are small, and there's no word to indicate what they means, but that's okay. They're just for Grey, only for Grey, and the cruel, twisted rat inside of him hopes these will just be the first of many. Because he wants to feel that heat again.

 

“Don't squirm,” Gilliam chastises quietly from behind Grey, his voice distracted.

Grey can't help himself. He's _bored_. He's bored, sore, and stiff, and wants to run off and find Edgar. He wants to climb the walls and creep through the darkness and scare Andrew while he's napping. He wants to play with Timmy and watch while Tanya teaches the little one how to talk. He wonders if it was the same with him when Gilliam taught him and Edgar, because he can't remember that far back.

He wants to follow Curtis around, because Curtis is restless and angry and it gives Grey this fluttery, hot feeling in his gut to be around him. Curtis feels like _movement_. Like anticipation and barely-restrained adrenaline. Grey understands why Edgar likes to be around him.

This train is so small and tight and claustrophobic. Just being _near_ Curtis feels wide and wild and free.

But Grey isn't permitted freedom today on account of Gilliam's decision to tattoo him. _It's going to take at least a couple of days_ , Gilliam says, and Grey nearly slumps in on himself with dejection. He hates being held, cooped up, caged. He especially hates having to be patient, and Gilliam is asking the near-impossible of him. To keep _himself_ still for the duration, while poking him all over his skin with the tiny needles that makes him bleed _just a little_ ; just enough that he can smell it. Just enough to remind him of heat and sticky and copper and life. It wakes his skin up all over, making him feel everything so keenly. Just enough to get him hard between the legs, and all hot-prickly, and Gilliam won't let him _squirm_.

“One of the greatest virtues a man can possess is patience,” Gilliam murmurs from behind Grey, the brush of his caring words in stark contrast to the biting, abrasive pain from the needle. He drops his head sullenly and digs his chin into his sternum, just for something to do really. Grey doesn't often resent the fact that he can't speak, but on days like this he wishes he could find the words.

He hates that he can't see Gilliam, can't see his eyes. Doesn't know what he's thinking or feeling. He hates that there's no one here to watch or play with. He hates all the books in Gilliam's space because he's read them all countless times. He hates the smell of the ink and the unsatisfying jab-jab-jab of the needles into his skin. Not painful enough to go to his head and send him into that reeling other place, but too annoying to ignore. It's driving him _crazy_.

It's an ancient, revered art form, tattooing. At least that's what he was told as he watched Gilliam trade three protein blocks to the old Korean man with the strange little gun-shaped device. Grey doesn't know how it works or where the ink comes from, but he doesn't especially care. He trusts Gilliam implicitly.

On Grey's arms are words to communicate: _Hello, goodbye, yes, no. Hungry, tired, sex. Surrender, die._ The rest of his skin is a canvas for Gilliam's whims. Book quotes that make him remember before, and symbols that are probably nonsense, but could be magic spells for all Grey knows. Spells to keep him safe and to make him strong. Spells to keep him secreted away in the dark when he doesn't want to be seen. Symbols and words and whims. Gilliam's name over Grey's heart, right where it belongs. Giving him power.

Grey's dark eyes dart around the small space, _Gilliam's_ space. His tent. It's warm and the walls look soft because they're draped with material, but Grey knows that behind that softness is a hard, unyielding cold. It reminds him of every person he knows, and he can't help a smile.

“Almost done,” Gilliam says, but Grey rolls his eyes because that's what Gilliam's been saying for the past hour. He finally gives into indulgence and palms over the front of his gray track pants, a harsh exhalation scraping through his windpipe as he squeezes at his swelling cock.

Behind him Gilliam chuffs softly as he pulls the needle away from Grey's skin. “If you're going to do that, I still expect absolute stillness,” he warns pleasantly. “Discipline is the marker of a great man.”

Grey's teeth grind together slightly because he can hear the smile in Gilliam's words. This is a game. This is a game and Gilliam doesn't think Grey will win, but he _will_ . He can be good and perfect. He stretches his legs out in front of him and spreads them a bit, accommodating his hand as he shoves it in past the stretchy waistband of his pants. He squeezes his eyes shut as a shudder threatens, because his hand is cold and his cock is hot, but he keeps himself still. He _will_ stay still.

The pain at his back stops suddenly. The poke-poke of the needles is gone. Grey blinks a few times and turns suddenly, only to have a jar shoved into his line of vision. Grey bites his lip and takes it obediently, knowing all too well what it contains. Well, he doesn't know what it is _exactly_ , only that it's slick and soft, and when he rubs it into his palms it gets warm, and it makes tugging at himself feel so much better.

A soft, strained whine catches in his throat as his newly-slicked hand curls around his cock, squeezing and fisting with all the finesse of a starving boy. Gilliam's hand moves to ghost over his side, fingering the rib bones that are quickly disappearing day after day under a layer of lean muscle. Grey lolls his head to the side and clenches his jaw as he slowly works his hand over his own hard flesh, watching the dark, dusky head disappear against his palm before pushing back out again, all slicked and swollen.

“You're old enough, now,” Gilliam says, his voice gone a little tight and rough. “You should... find someone to do that with.”

Grey's breath catches in his throat and his skin goes hotter than it already is. Without hesitation he turns halfway, his dark eyes lighting on Gilliam's face. A myriad of emotions play over the older man's features before he slides a careful, neutral mask back into place. But he doesn't fool Grey.

To hell with the tattoos.

With a low, needy sound catching in his throat, he practically falls sideways onto Gilliam in his haste to press their lips together. He's never really considered this before now, but why wouldn't they? It seems just as natural as anything else between them. It _feels_ right, and that's all Grey has to go off of. Feelings, instincts. Wants and needs.

Before Gilliam can react, Grey twists around to face him and rolls to his knees, his hands grabbing fistfuls of the old rags Gilliam wears as he nudges his thigh between a full leg and a stump. Grey howls in silent triumph as Gilliam shudders, a harsh breath pushing out into Grey's hungry mouth as he lifts his bony, agile hand to cup Grey's face. Cups his face and then firmly pushes him back, breaking the kiss.

Grey blinks. He blinks again and lifts his hand, flashing the two-day-old YES tattooed on his skin in bold black ink. He narrows his eyes slightly, head cocking as if accepting the challenge, and darts back in again to reclaim the kiss.

“Grey, _no_ ,” Gilliam says, his voice rough. “Not me. I...”

Grey pulls back and petulantly lowers his eyes, wearing frustrated rejection plain on his face.

“I can't.”

Grey frowns and knits his brow, tongue darting out over his lips as he leans back in, nuzzling at the side of Gilliam's jaw and nosing behind his ear with a low, soft whine. His thigh muscles constrict to the consistency of iron as he summons all of his will not to rut up against Gilliam, but he's never been taught how to control this craving.

“Shh.” Gilliam's voice is soothing in Grey's ear. “I can't give you exactly what you _want_ , but I can give you what you need.” Gilliam lifts his hand to brush over the back of Grey's head, fingers scratching his scalp through his hair, sending hot chills crawling his skin.

Grey's momentarily surprised by the feel of Gilliam's hand, a little shaky but sure, dropping to tug the stretchy waistband of his pants down without hesitation. He digs his teeth into his lower lip because he needs the sharp, bright paint to counter the fierce swell of sticky-hot heat that fills his groin and swells through his chest. The needy, breaking sounds in his throat fills the otherwise silent air as Grey manages to kick his pants aside with a desperate grace, and Gilliam reaches for the little jar.

He buries his face against the side of Gilliam's throat as a cool, strong hand wraps around him, slick and sure. Gilliam isn't weak; all of his years of walking with that cane have seen to that. His touch is sure and practiced, and within minutes Grey is gasping hot and moist, his hips rocking shallowly as he pushes his cock again and again through Gilliam's strong fist. His head fills with a warm spin that has his hips jerking and stuttering as he spurts hot between Gilliam's fingers.

His lithe, hunched body slumps weakly against Gilliam’s, and in his pleasured daze he only half-hears Gilliam muttering about 'not enough water to wash a damn thing', and practically purrs at the feel of his own come, still warm, being worked over and rubbed into the skin on his lower stomach. He feels young and small again as he practically curls up against Gilliam, and doesn't even feel the need for a blanket as he lazily dozes. He's already nice and warm.

 

Grey feels the caress of cool air on the hot, sensitive skin of his back and his bare ass. He hasn't bothered to put his clothes back on, because what for? He hears someone walk in, hears their steps pause as their eyes catch sight of him stretched out on his stomach, and he knows he probably looks a sight right now. Lean and dirty, brown and naked, back red and swollen and bleeding around freshly-inked words. There's a pink flush to his skin, and the scent of ink and spunk and pheromones hang heavy in the air.

Grey doesn't bother moving or looking, just nuzzles his face more completely into the blankets bunched in Gilliam's lap. He feels no shame in his nudity, and doesn't understand the elders who do. When you live on top of other people, shame and prudence are luxuries that no one can afford.

“Sorry.” The voice is gruff and embarrassed, and Grey recognizes it immediately as Curtis. He smiles against Gilliam's leg because he knows that means Edgar is nearby.

Grey feels Gilliam lift his hand and wave off Curtis's misplaced propriety, before gesturing for him to come in.

“I didn't mean–” Curtis begins cautiously, before clearing his throat. “Are you two–?” Grey feels Gilliam shake a bit, silently laughing.

“No,” Gilliam says, pulling a few warm tingles along Grey's shoulders as he drags his fingers through Grey's coarse hair. “Much to his chagrin.”

Grey huffs and presses his face against Gilliam's thigh, breathing hotly on purpose. Hoping Gilliam will feel it through the barrier blankets. Hoping it might be enough of a retort. He smiles as Gilliam shifts a little.

“ _Have_ you–?”

“No, Curtis.” Gilliam sounds softly impatient, maybe even a little resigned. Grey frowns.

“Not my business,” Curtis says, swallowing his curiosity down thickly. “Can we talk?”

The two of them are silent for a moment and Grey can feel the weight in the room. He knows without needing to be told that he should go and find something else to do. That some things aren't for his ears. He heaves a breath and rolls over onto his feet, careful to mind his back which is still sore and aching and itchy. It's so _itchy_. Gilliam says he can't wear his coat for a few days because it's too heavy and might rub off the scabs, so he doesn't bother with anything as he yanks up his track pants.

He pauses beside Curtis just long enough to hold up three fingers at him, his hand turning until they form what everyone has come to decipher as an E; Grey's way of asking for Edgar.

“He's in the bathroom,” Curtis says. “His hair needed a scrub. Timmy crushed half a protein bar in it.”

Grey's lips stretch in an amused grin as he knocks his shoulder into Curtis's, granting him that single gesture of brotherly affection before wandering off toward the bathrooms. Neither Gilliam or Curtis notice that nestled against Grey's palm and hidden inside curled fingers is that little jar of slick.

 

Grey's first kiss was a girl called Nora. He remembers it clearly, because not three minutes later her blood sprayed hot and thick over his face as she was gunned down by front section guards. The McGregor Riots are terror and nightmares and adrenaline and gasping claustrophobia, but there's also Nora's good luck kiss. Promises and warmth. A few good memories buried amongst all of the death.

His first kill was for her, because it was in that moment that Grey realized they're all going to die on this train. That it's only a matter of time. But where that thought might dry some people up, making them hard and cruel and sharp, it fills Grey with a desperate need to connect. He's cold all the time these days; he wants to be warm when he dies.

Kissing Edgar is nothing like kissing Nora. For one thing, Nora didn't punch Grey when he kissed her.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Edgar hisses, dancing back and shaking out his hand as Grey reaches up to rub at his jaw, looking offended. The punch was really clumsy, but Edgar had just started learning, so it's forgivable. Grey steps up and crowds Edgar back against his bunk and leans in to kiss him again, but ends up with a mouthful of fair hair as Edgar turns his head sharply and shoves Grey off with an annoyed sound.

“You can't just _do_ that,” Edgar protests, his eyes darting around at the people moving around them. The people ignoring them, because they have better things to do than watch two kids.

Grey furrows his brow in confusion and reaching his hand between them, palming boldly right over Edgar's crotch and squeezing. He felt a jolt of arousal shoot through him as Edgar practically squawks and grabs at his arms, his eyes going wide as saucers. Grey smirks as he feels Edgar twitch against his palm.

“What if someone sees?!” Edgar shoves at Grey, his cheeks going pinker than usual. “What if someone's watching us?!”

Grey snorts and sighs, his shoulders dropping as he placates Edgar and glances around, before grabbing him by the wrist and tugging at him. He jerks his head to the right and begins stalking off, dragging Edgar after him.

“I don't know about this, man,” Edgar mutters behind him. “You and me? I mean, we're mates, right? Like brothers. Isn't this weird?” He rambles on like he always does in Grey's company. Well, in anyone's company, really, but especially in Grey's, indulging in his need to always fill the silence. Grey ignores his apprehensions because he _knows_ this is right. It's right because it feels right, and Grey has always trusted his instincts. They're all he has to go on.

They still have three hours until evening head count, so Grey feels no apprehension sneaking himself and Edgar into the plaza so they can be alone. He knows Edgar will make a fuss if they're not alone. He knows that's all because of Curtis and the way people used to think back on earth, but Grey's not that way. He's not that way and Edgar shouldn't be that way. The train is their world, and Edgar needs to stop thinking back to times before; to memories that aren't even his.

 

Grey's fingers curl into their makeshift bed, which is nothing more than their meager clothes bunched up on the floor beneath him. A little padding so his knees and toes don't scrape along the cold floor, and something to bury his face into when Edgar's cock pushes into him all slick with the stuff from the jar. It doesn't matter that they're both awkward and inexperienced, all that matters is that it's happening.

“Fuck, fuck,” Edgar gasps, his hands kneading into Grey's leanly-muscled sides, nails digging into his hips. “ _Fuck_.”

The pain is really intense and has Grey gasping and choking against Edgar's crumbled jumpsuit. It's not until Edgar starts moving inside of him that he can even think clearly again. It feels like being being bruised from the inside out, and none of his muscles will relax until Edgar starts to work him open with his cock, stretching him slowly, agonizingly. That's when Grey remembers that they forgot to use fingers first.

“Oh, god, man,” Edgar groans. “This feels fucking _incredible_.”

Grey keens low in his throat, teeth clenching so hard his jaw aches. One hand clenches into a fist and pounds at the ground a few times as Edgar sinks in deep, _so_ deep, and stabs something inside of Grey that sends sparks of shuddering heat and toe-curling pleasure through him. He grunts out a guttural sound and smacks his hand flat on the cold ground, bucking back against Edgar's erratic thrusts. Wanting, no, _demanding_ more of that.

He works his own hand between his legs because trying to get Edgar to think of more than one thing at a time seems pointless right now, and Grey is reluctant to do anything that might break his rhythm. It finally feels so good, and his head is spinning and heady with each thrust of Edgar's hard cock inside of him.

He pulls at himself, squeezing tight and brushing his thumb over that little sensitive spot that makes him whine, and he doesn't even feel guilty thinking of Gilliam when he shoots. Thinking of Gilliam's sharp, keen eyes watching Edgar fuck into him from behind, taking him on his hands and knees like the animals he's read all about in Gilliam's books.

Their coupling is short, messy, and inelegant, but neither of them care. They're just chasing sensation, the heat. It's good just to _feel_ for a little while; to not have to think. It's good to be close to people.

 

“And how _is_ Edgar?” Gilliam asks the moment Grey walks back into his tent, not even waiting for the blanket flap to fall shut behind him.

There's no anger in his voice, no disapproval. Grey doesn't expect any, but strangely there _is_ something there. He doesn't answer, just stares down at Gilliam, head cocking and eyes narrowing suspiciously as a cool twist settles in his stomach.

“Oh, don't look at me that way.” Gilliam sighs and lifts his hand, gesturing for Grey to turn around. “Let me see your back.”

Grey doesn't turn. He's suddenly annoyed, because he'd expected more of a reaction. He feels spiteful, and that makes him uncomfortable, because he hates thinking that he did what he did with Edgar just out of some childish attempt to get back at Gilliam for something Gilliam can't even give him. He hates thinking he'd do that to Gilliam _or_ Edgar... not that he's that worried about Edgar's delicate emotions.

His expression darkens and he lowers his eyes, looking away from Gilliam before turning around with a grunt. He drops to a crouch and presents his back, letting Gilliam see that he took care to mind the tattoos. His knees are another story, though. Those are definitely going to be bruised.

“Give it here.” Gilliam's hand appears in Grey's peripheral vision, and for a moment he's confused. _Give what–? ...oh._ He lets out a heavy breath and digs into the pocket of his track pants, long fingers curling rather possessively around the jar of slick, before pressing it into Gilliam's hand with a little scowl. He awaits his reprimanding, but is instead greeted with a warm smear of fingers over one of the tattoos on his shoulder-blade.

“There isn't much hand lotion left on this train.” Grey frowns and tips his head back, hearing the smile in Gilliam's voice. “But I suppose it could have gone to worse use.”

Grey drops his shoulders and sags a bit. He doesn't know why he feels guilty, but he does.

Silence descends as Gilliam wordlessly works the lotion into Grey's tattoos, keeping his skin from going dry. Grey understands; if a wound goes dry, it makes a scar. The words in his skin are art, not a battle map. Gilliam doesn't want them to look ugly. His fingers linger even after he's finished, tracing the contours of Grey's back. The musculature and where his bones still boyishly jut, before his hand comes to rest on one of Grey's shoulders.

“If I was a younger man...” Gilliam whispers harshly, fingertips digging briefly into Grey's shoulder before skittering away. Grey turns quickly on his heels and leans in, dropping to his knees right at Gilliam's side. His brow furrows with instant concern, his eyes shining and pleading as he reaches for Gilliam, taking his hand and squeezing it.

_I'm yours. Always yours._

Gilliam's smile cracks a bit, but it's genuine. “I know,” he whispers. He reaches up and grabs Grey's chin and tugs him in, pressing their lips together in a warm, nearly chaste kiss, only it lingers just a bit too long to be anything other than what it is. “I know you're mine, and for that I _am_ sorry, my boy.”

Grey shakes his head, feeling confusion and a sudden sadness, and he doesn't know why. But Gilliam just bades him in close and snuffs out the light, and they use each other to keep warm until sleep finally comes.

 

“It's all happenin', man,” Edgar says with an almost fanatical edge to his voice, legs swinging over the edge of Curtis's bunk where he and Grey are perching, each with a protein bar in hand. “Curtis finally told me.”

Grey snickers silently and rolls his eyes at the awe in Edgar's voice. At the way Edgar practically worships Curtis.

“It's not time yet,” Edgar continues, talking around a mouthful of reddish-blackish crumble in his mouth. “But Curtis says soon enough. Maybe even in a few months.”

“What're you two whisperin' about?” Tanya asks. Both Edgar and Grey turn to her with wide eyes, surprised they'd been snuck up on.

“Oh, nothin',” Edgar says with a sweet smile that absolutely no one would mistake for innocent. “Nothing at all. No, ma'am. Nothing to hear or see here.” Grey hides his own smile behind his protein bar before taking a huge bite and chewing.

“Hrmph,” Tanya sounds, lifting a suspicious eyebrow and shifting a basket from one hip to the other. “Watch Timmy for me while I do some washing, okay?”

They both nod and watch Tanya as she weaves down the narrow path, leaving little Timmy staring up at both of them with wide eyes, using both hands to hold the half a protein block he gets. He's still too young to need a whole.

Grey shoves the remainder of his into his mouth and jumps down, snapping twice at Timmy before holding out his hands. Timmy laughs and tosses the remainder of his bar onto Edgar's bunk and lets himself get picked up and climbs up onto Grey's shoulders, letting out a delighted sound as Grey takes off running down the way Tanya came. Edgar calls out after them and jumps down himself, grabbing the remains of Timmy's bar and running after them, the three yelling and shouting in jubilation as they make their way toward the common area in search of that ever elusive ball.

 

It's not until Grey's nearly seventeen that Gilliam allows him to touch him.

“You were too young before,” Gilliam gasps, his voice rough as he clings to Grey's shoulder with his one good hand. “Everything I did for you–” He cuts off with a harsh swallow and a soft choking sound as Grey nuzzles up under his chin, lips and tongue soothing greedily over his skin. “It was _for_ you. To teach you...”

Grey understands. Everything over the past several years was to help him grow. To show him how to be a man. To show him what a man _needs_ . But now he _is_ a man and he knows what he wants, and now Gilliam can't turn him away.

Grey slips a hand into the folds of their blankets and curls his hand around Gilliam, careful to stay calm and to keep control of himself. His lusts burn a lot hotter and brighter, he knows, and Gilliam is much more frail than he used to be. With a low, wanting sound, Grey drags his lips down over Gilliam's jutting collarbone and rests them there, turning his head just enough to hear Gilliam's heart beating.

He brings Gilliam off slowly, keeping himself disciplined. Making sure Gilliam's heartbeat remains steady and doesn't go dangerous. He wants Gilliam to feel as much pleasure as he can, but he certainly doesn't want this to be the last thing he ever feels.

When they're done, and Grey has swatted away all attempts at reciprocation, he lays Gilliam down and curls around him from behind. He wraps Gilliam in his arms, pressing his mouth to the back of his neck and breathes warmly, because Gilliam needs to be taken care of. He needs to be protected and kept safe. He needs to feel just as safe and loved as Gilliam has always made Grey feel, and now that Grey is a man, all he wants is to give back to Gilliam everything Gilliam gave to him.

 

It's their seventeenth year on the train when Curtis and Gilliam decide it's time to take the engine. This is what Grey has been training for, he knows that now. This is what all of Gilliam and Curtis's secret meetings were about. This is why he has to sleep with Edgar some nights, when the elders turn him away from Gilliam's tent. When Gilliam's candles burn low through the night and Grey can't sleep, because he can't stop staring at the soft glow diffused through the blanket doors.

He knows they're talking about things he's not meant to know, because Grey knows his place. He's not just a tail-sectioner, he's not a shoe, and he's not someone that needs to have their fights fought for them. He's their weapon. He knows that this will either be the beginning of their lives or the end. Either way, he'll do what he's meant to do.

 

Grey's sure he knows Gilliam better than anyone does. When all you can do is watch and listen, you learn all the little things that other people never get the chance to. They're so busy waiting for their turns to speak, they just don't take the time to really _see_. So when Gilliam tells Grey he must go with Curtis, to help Curtis win his rebellion, Grey feels his stomach twist a little. He sees something in Gilliam's eyes, feels something in the hesitant way Gilliam touches his face, his hair.

Grey knows this is what needs to be done, and he goes proudly, but he can't help feeling that something is off. Something is wrong.

But there's no time to ask because they have to keep going forward. They have to take the front. They _can_ take the engine now, Grey is sure of it. They have the front people scared and on the run. They have Minister Mason. They have Edgar's death to light a fire in their hearts.

Grey nods and moves to join Curtis, Tanya, Andrew, Namgoong, and Yona. He stands with them proudly, but never takes his eyes off of Gilliam. His skin is crawling and itching, and his muscles are tight, and he wants to run and fight and be free, but he can't stop looking at Gilliam. There's something in his eyes that's bothering Grey. There's a dullness to the luster. It's not until they're all crowding through the door that Grey realizes what it is. That it's a goodbye.

He gets one last glance at Gilliam over his shoulder before the doors shut behind them.

 

They lose Andrew in a hail of bullets, but Grey doesn't allow himself the luxury of fear before killing the teacher. She gave up all rights to life when she took the life of his friend. He can't be afraid, now. He can't hesitate. Curtis needs him to be the weapon he was honed to be, and he'll help Curtis win.

But then the television screen flickers on, and Grey feels his entire world bottom out and spin around beneath his feet as the elder Franco drags Gilliam, beaten and bloodied, onto his knees and executes him. Puts a bullet right through Gilliam's head, just like that. Takes the only home Grey has ever known away from him. Just like that.

Grey thinks he dies then, too, right along with Gilliam.

 

From that moment on, everything is a blur. The blood, the death, the fear. The cruelty of animal instincts that curl their claws around his heart and squeeze. The simple drive to keep moving forward, always in perpetual motion, just like the train itself. The steady pace of machine logic and no real emotion to speak of.

Curtis has to win. He _has_ to win, or Gilliam's death means nothing.

 

It's the heat and the steam that knock into him first. It confuses Grey and makes him feel slow. He's tired, so tired, and he hurts all over. In his body and in his heart and soul. He blanks his mind and lets the rat take over, encouraging the instincts of cruel and unforgiving.

He stabs his knife into flesh and feels the life leave the bodies he drops in his wake, but he keeps walking. Going forward, always going forward toward the miracle engine. But when he sees Franco everything goes red. He stops thinking clearly.

One last good deed in saving Curtis's life before Grey gives up his own. Because he's just so tired and he doesn't have much left to fight for. But he promised himself he'd make sure Curtis made it to the front.

When Franco has him up against the wall, Grey can see in his eyes that he's going to die here. That he's going to die by the same hand that took Gilliam from him. He thinks it's fitting, maybe.

He doesn't fight back as hard as he can. Maybe he should drive his knee into Franco's stomach or break the bridge of his nose with his forehead, but he doesn't. Maybe he should twist and jerk his body, or grab Franco by the back of his head and smash his face into the wall. But maybe he doesn't do any of those things because his machine is winding down. Maybe all of his weak struggles are in vain; the spasming muscles and misfiring instincts of an animal who already knows his fate.

Maybe Grey welcomes the sink of the blade into his heart and the deep, aching black that clouds his eyes and drags him under. Because maybe all he wants is to just be with Gilliam again.

 

**Author's Note:**

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